Sparks
by chosenpotter
Summary: "my heart is yours, it's you i hold onto." ron tastes like lemonade in the sweet days of summer, the freshest bit of peppermint in icy winter. hermione's something else entirely, like lavender and the sticky sweetness of strawberry ice cream. he's drowning, he's sure. [ HARRY POTTER X HERMIONE GRANGER X RON WEASLEY. ] [ POST-WAR. ]
1. i

At first, he thought it was just Hermione. She was radiance in itself, all sleepy-eyes and warm sighs in the morning, soft skin and sugary laughter in the evening. He liked her best when she was curled in the ugly floral-printed armchair she'd refused to part with in the corner of the living room, leathery book in her hands as she lost herself to the world.

She made coffee the Muggle way, fumbling with the machine in the corner of the kitchen and filling the flat with the sweet aroma. He usually rose first, the first to see her in such a way where she was this extravagant. She's completely relaxed in her ways, dancing about the tile floor to the sound of the crackling radio on the shelf. She'd pass him his mug with a kind smile, the one decorated with Quidditch symbols that he'd absolutely adored at first sight.

Hermione was lovely, and he understood why he felt deep affection for her. But _no,_ it wasn't just her.

It was Ron, too, with his miraculous baking skills inherited from his mother, mouthwatering buns popped in the oven every other day and delicious desserts whipped up on weekends. Occasionally, they all got takeout from the local spot down the block, but he much preferred Ron's dumplings over the ones from the Chinese place.

It was Ron with his unhealthy Cannons obsession, able to score box seats just because he was a war hero. ("Something I never regret using my status for," he always said.) It was Ron, with his chess games set up in front of the fireplace, whooping arse left and right. It was Ron, with his off-key singing in the shower, and his roaring laughter echoing down the stairs as he tested out George's joke products.

But it was also Ron with a sensitive side, always there to comfort when needed. He got jealous, sometimes, seeing Ron with Hermione. They fit so _perfectly,_ there was hardly any room for him. But yet, Ron managed to find time for him anyways, comforting his nightmares with a good cup of hot cocoa.

It was both of them, there to stand by him at every turn, to be his support, to keep him sane. He couldn't live without them, not one without the other. They were so perfect, and he wanted a place in their hearts that wasn't already filled by each other. He tells them he loves them, but they just smile, they don't _understand._ Yes, he loves them as friends, but they think that's all. They don't know his fantasies of so much more, his dreams of more than affectionate hugs. He can't bear to tell them. He can only imagine what they'd say.

 _Freak._

Oh, Harry Potter was so _screwed._

 _GTGTGT_

The flat was quite large, just the perfect size for all three of them. They'd convinced Harry not to go it alone in Grimmauld Place, all inviting smiles and coaxing words. He'd given in, of course, how could he tell them no? So, the flat was born, as was the ugly armchair Hermione had fallen in love with at the local antique store. (They'd refused to budge, but so had she, and they knew she wouldn't back down.)

The flat was so _them,_ it was unbelievable. Harry had chosen the room with the large window, as he hated feeling like he was cooped up. He could look outside anytime he wanted, or even charm the view to show something that pleased him. Hermione had chosen the room with large shelves, filled with all her books and still with room. Ron had wanted the room with the high ceilings and roomy space, so different from his room at the Burrow. But it still seemed so cozy despite it's large size, filled with throw pillows and knit blankets.

Harry loved their home, with framed pictures from Hogwarts on the walls and the rug in the hallway that he always seemed to stumble over when getting off of late shifts at the Ministry. He loved the cozy kitchen, with the large oven and the Muggle microwave. But most of all, he loved the nights when they were all home from work, squished together on the sofa with a tub of Neapolitan ice cream and watching a film on the television. The large blanket knitted by Ron's mum as a housewarming present covered them nicely, and Harry often found himself dozing off on Ron's shoulder after a long week.

It was their home, and theirs alone. Sometimes they had guests over, but more often than not, it was just the three of them, like it always should be. Harry wondered why he hadn't realized it sooner, why he'd been so _oblivious._ But it had suddenly hit him one chilly day in January, when they'd all been snuggled on the couch, drinking hot cocoa and watching reruns.

He _loved_ them. He loved the way Hermione sang when she thought nobody was looking, secretive in her room, or even humming in the kitchen when she tried to prepare scambled eggs. He loved the way Ron snuck glances at Hermione across the room, absolute adoration in his eyes that he'd give to nobody else, whispering sweet nothings in her ear when she needed it most. (Harry wished he was the subject.)

Ron and Hermione were his everything, and he wanted nobody else's company. They were always going to be it for him, and that was the exact reason why he was so screwed.


	2. ii

Hermione Granger liked to think she was very observant, and in almost all ways, she most certainly was. But Merlin, _how_ hadn't she seen this? Harry was always so readable, but keeping a secret like this, it just didn't make sense. His love was always, _always_ out in the open, but she, Hermione Granger, a very observant young woman, had missed the signs.

It had been a Tuesday, she recalled, because they only all went out to the local pub on Tuesdays. It was a simple affair between the three of them, really, just a way to relax after a hard day at work.

Ron was a gin sort of person, always ordering a few shots for himself, and some strange concoction from the bar to wash them down with afterward. Harry, meanwhile, stuck to his Firewhiskys and Butterbeer, which he sometimes mixed with a little alcohol. Hermione, on the other hand, was more a fruity-drink girl, preferring not to drink too much, or anything too strong.

It had been well into the night by that point, and Hermione was pleasantly buzzed, lounging in the booth as she watched Harry and Ron across the table. They were currently laughing at an inappropriate joke the redhead had told, which really wasn't that funny at all.

"We should head home." Hermione said softly, standing from the table as she slid her purse over her shoulder, putting a crisp bill on the table for payment.

"Yes, ma'am." Ron said, giving a drunken salute, to which Harry doubled over in peals of laughter.

Hermione smiled, letting Ron sling an arm over her shoulder, whispering half-coherent thoughts in her ear as they headed towards the door. Harry shuffled behind them, and that should've been the first sign, really. She looked over her shoulder to make sure he was still there, thinking nothing of the sullen look on his face.

(She'd thought that was always how he looked after getting drunk, but no, it was different, and she couldn't believe she hadn't realized it.)

The walk home to their flat was silent, and as soon as she walked through the door, Hermione found herself being kissed up by a familiar set of lips. She gave a breathy sigh as she tilted her head up and back, allowing Ron further access.

"I'm heading into bed." Harry said from behind them.

And that had been the second sign right there, hadn't it? But she'd been too hazy to see, to notice. Harry longed for what they had, she knew, the pure chemistry of it all. But the way he'd been staring that night, positively pleading, and she hadn't noticed . . .

A long while later, the middle of the night, she finally put it all together. Her eyes snapped open with a gasp, and she rolled onto her side in Ron's bed, buried among the pillows and quilts. Ron grunted as Hermione desperately shook him, blearily blinking open deep blue eyes to peer at her.

"Wha' time issit?" he asked, voice slurred from a deep sleep.

"It doesn't matter. We need to talk." Hermione said, forcing her to look at him. "Hey! Don't fall back asleep on me, this is _important._ It's about Harry."

"Can't we chat about Harry in the morning?" Ron asked, and she could tell he was making a face, even though the lighting was dim.

"No, no, because I just came to a realization. Have you ever . . . have you ever noticed the way Harry looks at us? It's absolute adoration, Ronald, he's completely smitten."

"Well, yeah, we're his best friends. Isn't that the way friends should-"

"You aren't _getting_ it!" Hermione sounded frustrated, dragging her hands over her face. "He looks at you and I like . . . like _I_ look at you."

"Oh. _Oh._ " Ron sounded like he finally got it, though she wasn't completely sure. "Are you saying that he's . . ."

"We fit, Ron. That's always the way it's been. Don't tell me that you haven't ever . . . thought about him."

Hermione certainly had, back in her school days. What it'd be like to kiss Harry, to feel his lips on hers, to take him in her arms and just . . . _be._ He was so loving, and caring, and to earn his love and trust was something else. Ron gave her a fire in her bones, but Harry . . . he was like the soothing sounds of the beach on a breezy day, comforting her, always so sturdy.

Even now, she thought it sometimes, though not out loud. She loved Ron, she always told herself. But Harry, she loved Harry too, she realized. They were both her boys, and she loved them equally. She couldn't live if she lost one of them, they came as a matching set.

"Hermione . . . Merlin, it's too _early_ to be thinking about this." Ron sounded bone-tired, but at the same time, there was a thoughtfulness to his sleep-fogged voice. "Maybe. Maybe I have. I don't know."

She could tell he was lying. The way he embraced Harry sometimes, the way he put an arm around the smaller man's shoulders when Harry rested his head on his shoulders, the teasing touches when Harry tried to nick something from the kitchen whilst he was cooking, it was all _there._

Hermione'd never put all the facts together, but it was all underlying, really. Them, the three of them, it always felt so right. _Why_ hadn't she realized it before?

"I'll be right back." she said, rising from the cozy bed despite Ron's protests.

She slipped a Chudley Cannons shirt over her head that she picked up off the floor, shuffling down the hallway. She paused outside Harry's door, her fingers curling around the doorknob before she quietly pushed it open.

Harry was laid on his side, his back to her, but his body was shaking, knees protectively curled up to his chest. Hermione immediately went to his side, running a hand over his back and coaxing him to roll over. Harry peered up at her with his green eyes, a bit puffy from crying.

"C'mere, Harry, up we get." she said softly, and like a child, he followed her instructions, clinging close to her side.

"Hermione, wha-"

"Shh."

Ron's room was still dark as they got to it, and Hermione did a quick spell so the bed expanded. Ron was half-asleep by that point, startled awake by the sudden movement from underneath him. He opened his mouth to protest, but the moment Hermione moved forward into the moonlight, she could see him absolutely break.

"Oh, come on, then." he said, moving over to the left side of the bed and holding his arms open.

Hermione gave Harry a small nudge toward the bed, but Harry seemed frozen in place. He turned to squint at Hermione, confusion written all over his face.

"Are you sure about this? I mean . . . I haven't even-" he began to say, but she merely put a hand over his mouth.

"Get into the bed, Harry." was all she said, silently pleading that he'd do as she said.

Finally, finally, Harry crawled into the bed. He gave a startled squeak as Ron pulled him flush against his chest, and as Hermione laid on his other side a moment later. She gave Harry a kind smile, ghosting a kiss across his cheek.

"Ron, you're hogging him." she said teasingly.

Ron chuckled, and she thought she heard a muffled laugh from Harry as well. But Ron was fading fast, and as she gazed over at the clock on the bedside table (of course it was two in the bloody morning), she knew they could continue this tomorrow.

Hermione could hear Ron murmur something in Harry's ear, and Harry relaxed between them. One by one, they fell asleep. Ron was first, with his soft snoring. Then there was Harry, with his snuffling sighs. Hermione smoothed a hand over Harry's hair, then reached across him to put a hand on Ron's side, tangling her legs in the sheets.

They were her boys. And they'd talk in the morning, yes, over a fresh pot of coffee and pancakes, if Ron could be convinced. But for now, everything was alright, and Hermione felt complete.

Her sweet, lovely boys.


End file.
